


Protective Custody

by Colubrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Slave!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 13:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20136208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina
Summary: After the war the Ministry decided that all children and most wives of Death Eaters needed to be placed in 'protective custody' with 'trustworthy citizens' but no one wanted Draco Malfoy.





	1. Chapter 1

“No. Absolutely not.” Hermione glared at Harry as he walked into the room, papers in one hand, Draco Malfoy trailing behind him.  
  
“No one else will take him, ‘Mione.”  
  
And she knew she was trapped.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
The Ministry, in a fit of despicable bureaucratic insanity, had decided that all minor children and most wives of Death Eaters needed to be placed in ‘protective custody’ with ‘trustworthy citizens’ which was, as Hermione had said, as polite a term for slavery as she’d ever heard.  
  
Dolores Umbridge, one of the authors of the legislation, had smiled her oily toad smile at Hermione and said, “I don’t see why this bothers you so, dear. It’s not like anyone wants you to register or be placed with a family.”  
  
Things don’t stop being wrong because they aren’t happening to me, Hermione had thought, staring at the woman.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Harry and Neville had only had to exchange one glance, and they’d both started emptying their vaults, paying the ‘fees’ to get people out of the Ministry Detention Center and into the homes of trustworthy DA members and from there to safety in Europe. France took some, Germany a few more, and Bulgaria, thanks to the influence of Victor Krum, took more still.   
  
“No one will offer refugee status to him,” Harry said now as Draco stared at her, arms crossed and expression sullen. He was dirty, she noticed, and too thin. His hair was greasy and lank, his clothing probably the same he’d been wearing the day they’d rounded him up. There was a yellowing bruise on his cheek and, without thinking, she went to brush his hair out of his face and look at it more closely; she froze when the man flinched. “They won’t take actual Death Eaters, no one will,” Harry was still talking. “And everyone here’s afraid of him, or hates him.”  
  
“And you thought of me because…” Hermione trailed off, still looking at the pale, beaten man in front of her.  
  
“Because if you don’t take him they’ll probably just send him to Azkaban and he’ll die.” Harry was blunt.   
  
“I don’t own people, Harry,” she said desperately. “It’s wrong. Beyond wrong.”  
  
“I know,” he said as he sat down at the table and began to spread the paperwork out, the paperwork that would assign Draco Malfoy to her ‘protective custody’, the paperwork that would make him as close to her belonging as made no difference. “But if you don’t do it - “ Harry stopped and looked up at her.   
  
“This isn’t even going to be some legal fiction for the week it’ll take to get him out of the country,” she said, grabbing the quill. “And you know it.”  
  
The man shrugged, and she glanced back at Malfoy, still standing passively right inside the door. “This is fucking wrong,” she said again, helplessly, as she started to sign.  
  
“I know,” Harry said.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Draco Malfoy hadn’t even been surprised to be rounded up and detained. He’d been only moderately surprised to discover the Ministry planned to sell off children. He’d been surprised as hell when Harry Potter started showing up, buying as many as he could.   
  
He was bitter, beaten down, and tired, but he wasn’t a stupid man, and he knew that there was no way the sainted chosen one wanted dozens and dozens of slaves, so it didn’t take him long to put together there was some kind of underground railroad going on. He was relieved to see each person safely pulled out until he was it, the last man standing. No one, after all, wanted responsibility for an actual Death Eater. Bitter, indeed.  
  
Watching Hermione Granger sign papers that said he was hers, that she owned him like a chair or a dog or a book, he felt himself die a little. He’d hoped, somehow, that he’d get smuggled out too. No one will take you, Harry had said on their way here. No one will offer you refugee status. I’ve tried every place I could. I’m so sorry, he’d said.  
  
Thank you for getting them all out, Draco had said, without looking at the man. You didn’t have to do that, he’d said. You didn’t even like those people; they didn’t even like you.  
  
Yes, Harry had said, I had to. About some things, one doesn’t have a choice.  
  
She won’t take me, Draco had said.   
  
Yes, he’d said. She will. No choice.  
  
And she was. The papers were signed, and she looked like she wanted to vomit, but Hermione Granger had just sullied her perfect little soul and become a slave owner in order to keep him alive. He supposed he should feel gratitude; he didn’t.  
  
“You’ll have to side-along Apparate the first time,” she said without looking at him. “My cottage is unplottable, fidelius charm, the whole works.”  
  
“I’d have to side-along Apparate if it were the neighborhood pub,” Draco spoke for the first time. “No wand.”  
  
“You’re a wizard,” Hermione still wasn’t looking at him. “Of course you have a wand.”  
  
“I’m the offspring of a dangerous criminal, as well as being one myself, and I’m in need of protective custody,” he said. “And it’s hard to keep people enslaved if they have a magical wand they can use to escape.”  
  
She paled at that. “They confiscated all the wands?” She turned to Harry again. “You didn’t tell me they were doing that!”  
  
“You’ve had enough on your plate. I wanted to keep you focused.” Harry was gathering up the paperwork. “I’ll get this all filed and registered.”  
  
“Let’s go.” Draco watched her turn to him, and she grabbed him, and he felt the familiar, miserable sensation of Apparation before they were outside the lovely, rural cottage that would serve as his new prison. She led him in, past a white fence with a gate that hung open, past overgrown flowerbeds and through a rounded door with a window. The cottage was nice; he had to admit that. Small, but nice. There was a living area with a kitchen off to one side and three doors that opened off the main room. She pushed him towards one of them. “Guest room,” she said, her tone clipped. “Your room now.” She pointed at a second. “Bath. There’s only one; we’ll have to share.”  
  
He looked at her. She was obviously uncomfortable, miserable, even. Good. He’d learned early that the only power he had left was making people feel guilt about what they were doing to him.   
  
She kept babbling on, “I assume those are the only clothes you have so if you make a list of your sizes and some basic preferences I’ll get more ordered. Let me know what food you like too so I can stock the kitchen. I’ll make some sandwiches and – “  
  
He stopped her. “Shouldn’t I do that?” He paused, watching a confused look flit over her face before he added with as much malice as he could, “Mistress.”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.  
  
“It’s what you are,” he drawled, then said it again. “Mistress.”  
  
She nearly tripped as she ran from the main area into what he assumed was her bedroom and slammed the door behind her, and he made sure to laugh, a low, angry sound and one he wanted her to hear. Then he went into his room and, sitting on the bed, shook with fear and relief and resentment and exhaustion and so many other things he couldn’t even sort them out before collapsing into sleep.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
It was dark when he woke. A wary look outside his door confirmed the witch – his custodian – wasn’t out, so he made his way to the kitchen where he found a plate set out on the counter with a sandwich and some crisps along with a bottle of butterbeer. He ate, swallowing a little gratitude and a lot of resentment with the food she’d made him.   
  
There was a sheet of paper and a quill. She’d written ‘sizes/colors’ on the paper, and Draco dutifully wrote down what he needed. There was pride, and then there was being stupid.   
  
At the bottom of the list he wrote ‘freedom’ and then ‘a wand.’  
  
Choke on that, he thought. ‘Mistress.’  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
She had the clothes ordered and delivered within a day, and he slipped on a clean shirt and clean trousers with a feeling of relief. Clean was something he’d missed terribly. He’d washed at length, and then done it again. He didn’t think any of the cuts from the assorted discipline he’d endured at the detention center would scar, but it was good to run water over them, to clean them out.   
  
He and Granger managed to avoid one another. He’d snag books from her shelves and stay in his room; she left prepared food out on the counter and then cleaned up after him once he’d retreated back, away from her. He hated this, hated her. She hated this, hated him.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Come on,” she said, tapping on his door. When he didn’t answer, she hit the door harder and then opened it. He was standing at the window, staring out. “We’re going shopping.”  
  
He turned at her intrusion, narrowed his eyes, and said, “Might I ask for what, Mistress?”  
  
“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” she muttered. “And I’m getting you a wand.”  
  
He inhaled sharply and at that she said, an almost innocent smirk on her face, “I thought you said you wanted one. It was on the list you wrote.”  
  
“They won’t let you buy me a wand,” he said, following her to the living area.   
  
“Oh, really?” Granger was gathering things now and shoving them into her hideous bag. “Last time I checked I am the proud signer of a piece of paper that says I have you in custody and have the right to extract reasonable labor from you in exchange for room and board.”  
  
“Yes,” he drew the word out. He knew what the law entitled her to do, had had nightmares about what would happen to him, to his friends, to the bloody children who cried at night in the miserable detention center, until it had become clear Potter and his merry band of do-gooders were playing savior again.  
  
“Well, you’re a wizard,” Hermione Granger looked both logical and smug as she added, “and therefore any reasonable labor I might want to extract from you is going to involve magic which means you’ll need a wand.”  
  
He felt a smile come, wholly unbidden, and with it just the tiniest sprig of hope, both of which he shoved back down into the darkest recesses of his mind. “It won’t work,” he said.  
  
“Wanna bet?” she asked.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Draco Malfoy decided he was never going to bet against Hermione Granger. She’d walked into the shop and, as he’d predicted, the clerks gushed and flattered and were incredibly eager to help the war heroine until she announced she wanted a wand for him.  
  
“We can’t…” the clerk stumbled over the words. “He’s a…the law says…”  
  
“The law,” Hermione snapped, “Says that wands are to be confiscated during detention, but he’s not in detention now. I didn’t buy a Muggle gardener, I bought a wizard, and I need him to have magic.” She walked across the shop towards the clerk. He backed further and further away until he was pressed against the shelves. She was magnificent; Draco had to admit it to himself. Her bushy, ridiculous hair almost sparked with the magical energy she was radiating, and she was terrorizing the hapless clerk so efficiently she’d put his mother to shame.  
  
He hoped his mother had gotten out. They hadn’t been in the same detention center; there’d been a policy about separating families whenever possible. He tried not to think about it.  
  
“Surely,” Hermione was continuing, “you aren’t suggesting I can’t control him?”  
  
“No, no…” the man stammered and, with that, boxes were brought out, and wands were tested, and they found one that suited him. The clerk wrapped the package up and handed it, hands shaking, to Granger, who thanked the man with chilly precision as she paid the bill.  
  
Back at the cottage, she tossed the box at him, and Draco caught it. “Try not to curse me in my sleep,” she muttered before retreating back to her bedroom.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
He thought about just leaving, but he had nowhere to go.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Bloody buggering fuck.”   
  
Draco had stopped hiding in his room. Whatever this was, it wasn’t ending anytime soon and at least the cottage and garden made for a larger prison. He wasn’t sure what Granger did all day, but she was gone most of the time, and he had the run of the place.  
  
Like a pet, he thought, a sour, resentful thought.   
  
Now she’d come through the door, swearing, swinging that bag of hers, and flinging papers onto the table.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“We lost, that’s what.” She yanked the kitchen cupboard doors open and pulled down a bottle of fire whiskey, not mentioning how much lower the level was than when he’d first moved in. “Lost. I can’t fucking believe it.” She poured first herself a glass. “Do you want one?”  
  
“Lost what?” He crossed the room and picked up the glass she held out to him.   
  
“The appeal. We’ve been working ever since that legislation was passed to get it repealed. ‘I don’t understand why you object to this, Miss Granger. Don’t you have someone in protective custody yourself.’” She was mimicking someone, and he felt his stomach start to clench. “Lost the moral high ground, I did, when I took you in.” She swallowed a huge gulp of the whiskey and started to cough. “Not that it would have mattered. We were never going to win.”  
  
“You’re supposed to sip it,” he said, looking at her. “What have you been doing, Granger?”  
  
“Trying to get you your freedom, Malfoy. It was on your list, wasn’t it?” She laughed, the bitterest sound he’d ever heard from her. “Harry’s gotten almost everyone else out, so the only person the legal work would even really affect is you. And we lost. Lost.” She swallowed again, more carefully this time. “Just… fuck it.”  
  
“You’ve been trying to get the Protective Custody Act repealed?” he asked, very slowly, feeling his world spin as he watched the witch drink.  
  
“What the hell did you think I was doing all day?” She picked up her glass and the bottle and headed towards her room. “Excuse me.”  
  
He looked at her as she crossed to her door, listened to the sound of it slam shut, and began sorting through the paperwork she’d flung down. He read, sipping his own drink, and looking up at her door from time to time. He learned she’d been fighting the Act since it had been passed. She'd spent all her time since the war in a legal battle. He learned a lot of things. It took a while to go through all the papers, and she still hadn’t come out by the time he was done. He put the last sheet down and sat, for a long while, looking out the window at her neglected garden.   
  
Then he made dinner.   
  
When it was done, he just opened the door to her room without knocking and said, “Come eat.”  
  
“Fuck you, Malfoy,” she muttered.  
  
“You’d have to ask a lot more nicely than that,” he drawled, and at that, she looked up. “I made food. Come eat it.”  
  
“You don’t cook,” she said, but she stood up, and he plucked the glass from her hand as she passed him.  
  
It was true; he didn’t cook. He’d grown up with elves and servants and caterers, and prepared food had always just appeared. The meat he’d made was dry and the vegetables boiled to mush, but she ate what he put in front of her without complaining. She didn’t tease, didn’t insult, didn’t do any of the things he would have done if their places had been reversed and he watched her in silence as she cut one tough piece of pork after another off her chop and chewed them. When they were both done, she began to gather the plates and carry them to the sink.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asked.  
  
“Cleaning up,” she said, no inflection in her tone. “Thank you for making dinner.”  
  
“Shouldn’t that be my job as your slave?”   
  
“You aren’t a slave,” she turned on the water and began washing the dishes by hand.   
  
“Then what am I?” He was very quiet, watching her.   
  
“My temporarily politically inconvenienced housemate.”  
  
“I’m going to be a slave forever, aren’t I?” Her hands stilled over the dishes, then began to work again. “I read all the papers. You lost, Granger. Lost. No other country will take me; my own is keeping me in ‘protective custody.’ You objected and appealed and brought in witnesses and nothing mattered. You’ve reached the end of the political process. This is it, isn’t it?”  
  
“I’ll think of something,” she said, her back to him. “You won’t be stuck with me, here, for the rest of your life.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, still speaking so softly she had to stop banging the dishes to hear him. “I’ve wronged you, as they say.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re a prat. In other news, water is wet.” She was just standing there, now, her hands in the suds, not moving. Waiting, he supposed, to hear what he’d say next.  
  
“Why did you take me in?”  
  
“Because even if you’re a prejudiced arse with piss poor decision-making skills, you’re still a human being.” Her voice was tight and controlled. “Because what’s happened to you is wrong.”  
  
“Thank you,” he said. “You… I don’t think you know what you rescued me from.”  
  
“I assume it was bad. Harry said the conditions were… poor.”  
  
Draco Malfoy snorted at that. “Who knew Potter had such a talent for understatement.”  
  
“You showed up in clothes you’d been wearing for months, you were bruised, and you flinched when I went near you. I didn’t need Harry to tell me you’d been mistreated.”  
  
Draco thought of the detention center, of the way he’d inevitably drawn the guards’ attention, the way he’d started doing it on purpose to keep them away from people who were actually, rather than merely technically, children. “That’s one way of putting it, yes.”  
  
“You can stay here as long as you need to,” she said, finally facing him.   
  
“I’ll try to help out more,” he said, watching her dry her hands. So funny, the way she mixed Muggle and magical ways of doing things.   
  
“That would be great.” Her expression was carefully neutral. He thought for a bit about how she’d never asked him to do anything other than list the things he needed, about how she’d spent all her time trying to free him. He remembered writing ‘freedom’ on the list he’d made for her, wanting to rub her nose in her complicity with his servitude even though he’d known it had been unwilling. He remembered writing ‘a wand’, something he’d never believed she could – or would – get for him, something that he now had shoved into his pocket, something he spent a lot of time holding onto like a lifeline.  
  
He shrugged. “Well, your garden needs work.”  
  
At that, she smiled, a real smile, and he felt a small grin of his own reflected back at her.  
  
. . . . . . . . .  
  
She opened up the mail, and her eyes traced a short note before she handed him a smaller envelope that had been sealed up within it.  
  
“What’s this?”  
  
“I assume it’s a note from your mother. Harry finally got her out and…”   
  
She stopped talking because he’d made a choked sound and was tearing the letter open. He sensed her studying him as he began to shake, as he laid the paper very carefully on the table in front of him before he bent over and shuddered, struggling to control himself.  
  
“Is she okay,” she asked.  
  
“She’s fine,” he looked up, and tears were streaming down his face. “Your Harry got her out a while ago, she’s in hiding, she’s fine.” He bent his head down again. “She’s fine.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
She made a chocolate cake that night, and he watched her from the couch, pretending not to. He knew she watched him back, also pretending not to. They did a lot of pretending not to notice one another now that she was home all day, stalking about and nearly vibrating with suppressed rage at the Ministry.  
  
“What’s this for?” he asked, digging a fork into it.  
  
“To celebrate that your mother’s okay,” she said.  
  
“It’s good,” he said. “Thank you.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Herbology hadn’t been his favorite subject, but his mother had loved her gardens, and he’d learned enough at her side to tackle Granger’s overgrown and weedy flowerbeds which was exactly what he was doing when she came home and hugged him,  
  
He stood there, wand in hand, her arms around him, feeling her breasts press up against him, smelling her hair, and said, without moving, “If I’d known weeding would inspire such affection I would have done it sooner.”  
  
“Prat,” she said, letting him go, but there was respect in her tone, even fondness maybe.  
  
“What was that about,” he asked, watching her step back as things shifted somehow.  
  
She hoisted her bag back to her shoulder and said with a casual shrug that was obviously faked, “I was doing some investigation into the conditions of the detention centers.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“It’s a dead end.” Frustration flitted across her face. “Since they’re all closed now no one’s interested in opening a hearing into the way children were treated.”  
  
He wasn’t surprised, would have told her not to waste her time, had already started turning back to the garden when she added, “But I talked to a guard who told me some interesting things about the way a certain blond took care of the…” she stopped, and he could feel himself tense. “You’re a much better man than you’d have people believe,” she finally said, very quietly, before going into the house.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Teach me to cook,” he said, and she almost laughed at him before she controlled her expression. “It can’t be harder than potions,” he muttered, “and I don’t have much to do.”  
  
She bit the inside of her cheek as she looked at him and he squirmed and had begun to wish he hadn’t asked when she said, “I’ll get some cookbooks and let you teach yourself. I’m sure with some basic manuals you’ll be fine on your own. What kind of food do you like best?”  
  
“French,” he said, and when she actually did laugh at that, he grabbed some paper off the table, crumbled it up and threw it at her.  
  
“Hey,” she said, hands up in the air, “Don’t let me get in the way of your ambitions. That just may be… quite a leap from where you are now.”  
  
She handed him a book the next day, and he looked at it. “This is a – “  
  
“ - Muggle book. Yes.” She eyed him. “Do you have a problem with things from a Muggle background?”  
  
He was flipping through the book, skimming the instructions and watching her through a fringe of hair. Double meanings much, he thought, suppressing an urge to roll his eyes at her. All he said was, “Not anymore.”  
  
Double meanings. Half meanings.  
  
. . . . . . . . .  
  
“That was really good,” Granger looked like she wanted to actually lick the plate and Draco felt fully justified in his smug response.  
  
“My natural superiority triumphs yet again.”  
  
“Prat,” she snorted.  
  
“At your service,” he bowed as he cleared the table and brought out the chocolate concoction he’d made. I’ll see you one ordinary chocolate cake, he thought, and raise you a chocolate almond cake.  
  
Hermione Granger leaned back, a glass of port in her hand, and said, “Draco Malfoy, you’re a wonder.”  
  
“And you,” he snorted, “are more than a little drunk.” When she shook her head then had to steady herself against the table, he laughed. “Tomorrow’s going to be a miserable day for you, Granger.”  
  
“Slave’s revenge,” she said, raising her glass towards him in a toast.   
  
Definitely drunk, he thought, to be that cruel.   
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“The best plan we have is to get you a false Muggle identity,” she was saying. “You can glamour the Mark, dye your hair, and leave the country via Muggle means. You’ll only be able to use magic in private, of course, will have to live as an ordinary man but at least you’ll be free.”  
  
“You mean I’ll be a fugitive forever, hiding who I really am?” He asked her, and she blanched.  
  
“It’s all I can figure out,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Let me think about it,” he said.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
He pushed the door of her room open, didn’t even knock. She was awake instantly, of course, her hand on her wand. You don’t survive a war without developing some remarkable reflexes. He held his hands up. “It’s just me.”  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
He looked at her in the dim light. Her hair was a disaster, as usual. She was wearing an old t-shirt advertising some Muggle band he’d never heard of. She had her wand wavering in one hand, the other hand holding sheets up across herself as if to ward him off.  
  
“I want you to kiss me,” he said baldly, and she pressed herself back up against her headboard.  
  
“I can’t,” she stammered. “The Act… I practically own you… it would be… you can’t consent, the power differential is too great.”  
  
“Put down your wand,” he said slowly, with great deliberation, “and kiss me. I have lived in this house with you for far too long, and if I don’t kiss you, I might go absolutely barking mad. I assure you, I consent. I wholly, utterly consent.”  
  
“Draco…” she was watching him, her eyes wide, but she was putting the wand down, and he bore down on her, sitting on her bed and slipping his hands into that great, bushy mess she called hair.   
  
“Before you ship me off to live hiding everything about who and what I am, let me find this out, please, because I think if I touch you I’ll burn, because I want very much to find out if you will too, because before I have to make a choice about whether to be a fugitive or a slave I want to know this.  
  
“It’s wrong,” she whispered but, he noted, she was raising her hand to stroke his hair, her touch tentative and wary and scared and he had her, and he knew it.   
  
“Don’t talk to me about wrong,” he murmured, leaning forward, so his mouth hovered just above her skin. “I’ve lived so many varietals of wrong, I’m a bloody connoisseur. This is curiosity and lust and us figuring out whether we’re more than a do-gooder and her unfortunate project. What this is not is wrong.”  
  
“I own you,” she said again, in absolute desperation.  
  
“Nonsense,” he said, waiting for her to close that final distance between them. “I am merely your temporarily politically inconvenienced house guest.”  
  
“You’ve never been ‘merely’ anything in your whole life,” she muttered and, at that, he laughed.  
  
“Are you going to kiss me or not?”  
  
And she did, then, and he was right, it was fire. He was falling in fire, would be so falling forever, and there was no way he was letting this woman send him off to hide somewhere away from her. He could think of a lot of very interesting things that might qualify as reasonable labor she could extract from him in return for his room and board. He could think of a lot of things he’d like to extract from her. And he was tugging her shirt off over her head and staring at the utter, disheveled perfection of her before he groaned and pulled her down, pulled them both down, so they were lying on her bed, and he was running his hands over her bare skin and feeling her shiver next to him, feeling her mouth against his, feeling her hesitation even as it faded away. She was so inexperienced, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind. All that time spent saving them all, all that time spent trying to save him, and she’d never allowed herself this, just this.   
  
He couldn’t give her much, couldn’t even pay her back for the wand she’d bought him. But this, he could give her this.  
  
“Well,” he whispered at last when they broke apart to catch their breath, panting. “I think my decision about whether to be a fugitive or a slave rests with you because as I’d much rather stay and explore this in greater detail, it’s your choice. Do I get to stay, Mistress mine? No sending me off to hide as a Muggle in Bulgaria?”  
  
“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” she said, pulling his head back to hers, the hands she had in his hair so much less tentative now. “I hate it so much,” she muttered before she was kissing him again and he grinned against her.   
  
“I know,” he said, around the kisses he was layering onto her mouth, “Why do you think I do it?”  
  



	2. Chapter 2

They should have killed Narcissa Malfoy. There are some women you don’t allow to slip off into exile, and the woman willing to lie to the darkest wizard the world had ever seen for the sake of her son, a son you’re holding as a slave? She would be one of those women.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
It turns out that when you take a beating for a child, you turn not only that child himself but that child’s mother into a fierce partisan. It turns out you gain not one follower but at least two.  
  
Draco had taken a lot of beatings in that detention center.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“I always believed in the rules,” Hermione said, setting the paper in her hand down but not looking at Draco. “I thought if I worked hard and did what I was supposed to do, then everything would always come out right.”  
  
“You robbed a bank,” he drawled, sprawled in slovenly comfort on her couch. On their couch. “I’m not sure you’re quite the rule follower you’d like to think of yourself as.”  
  
“Still,” she walked over the window and looked out. “I thought there are ways you do things. If you do things the right way, you end up getting the proper result, as if life were a potions recipe. Sometimes maybe the proper way needs a little nudging – “  
  
“Did you really just call breaking into Gringrott’s ‘a little nudging’?”   
  
“ – but I thought, really truly thought, this absurdity that has you living here, that has me owning you, that this was something I could fix by filing the appropriate objections, by lodging appeals. This is so wrong, how could anyone not see it needed to be stopped?”  
  
“Because it doesn’t hurt them,” he said, “Because I did do horrible things. Because vengeance is… easy. Hating people is easy. Trust me in that I know what I’m talking about here.” He picked up the paper she’d set down, wondering what had set her off. “I didn’t realize you read Bulgarian.”  
  
“Use a translation charm,” she said from the window with a snort. “Are you a wizard or aren’t you?”  
  
He skimmed quickly through the article then looked up at the woman still staring out into the grey, winter day.   
  
“What do you do,” she asked him, “when playing by the rules doesn’t work?”  
  
He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, but he answered her anyway. “You break the rules, Mistress mine. You change the game.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Narcissa treasured the letters she got from Draco. He wrote regularly, frequently, and if the letters were generally light things, filled with amusing anecdotes and admonitions to take care of herself, she knew her son. She saw how he’d changed, how he was changing.  
  
Detention had hardened him; his own government had turned a terrified child eager to please any authority figure he could into a man who’d step into a swung hand without hesitation. He never mentioned those months when he wrote, but she’d met enough women – enough children – who remembered the hostile, taciturn man who’d protected them that she could weave together the story of what he’d endured. She saw the echoes of it in tales he told of weeding the garden, making a cake. He had a confidence he’d never had before, a growing ease with himself. What had made him that way filled her with rage. He filled her with pride.  
  
Being taken in by that Muggle-born girl had saved him. Narcissa had never thought she’d be grateful to Hermione Granger, of all people, but the girl had protected him, stripped him of the prejudices that had distracted his father, given him a space to heal.  
  
Bought him cookbooks, of all things. That made Narcissa smile. Not many things did.  
  
Bought him a wand.  
  
If he’d just been smuggled into exile like the rest of them, Narcissa thought, he would have stewed in justifiable bitterness until he’d fallen apart, turned into a broken alcoholic. Now, faced with the daily reminder that someone, someone he’d despised, had fought for him, he was becoming something more. His father had wanted power, wanted influence, had thought he could buy that with ancestral wealth and a condescending sneer. He’d never really gotten any, not the kind he wanted; no one had ever been willing to face down tyrants for Lucius, no one had ever ridden to war in his name.  
  
Draco had picked his power up in a dirty room with barred windows and not enough food. Had added more when he’d wooed and won the Granger girl.  
  
She wondered what he would do with it.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Draco reread the article in the Bulgarian paper after Hermione had gone to bed. British Refugee Starts Social Club for Fellow Exiles. Mother, he thought, what are you doing?   
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Harry rather wished Hermione hadn’t started sleeping with Malfoy. He supposed it had been inevitable; once she’d lost the final political appeal in her quest to repeal the Protective Custody Act she hadn’t had much to do other than sit around her cottage with the man. Still, it made having dinner with them somewhat more awkward than he’d anticipated. They touched, and they caught one another’s eye. They smiled at hidden, private jokes. They were adorable and charming, and if it hadn’t been one of his best friends and his schoolyard nemesis, he would have been charmed.   
  
Their ridiculously lovelorn behavior also didn’t quite disguise that Hermione was up to something.  
  
Or maybe it was Malfoy.   
  
Hermione asked him, over some kind of chocolate concoction that he was sure Malfoy had lied about making, what he wanted to do next about the Act and how comfortable was he with, perhaps, going outside conventional political channels.  
  
“It’s an immoral law,” she said, fork halfway to her mouth, and Harry glanced at Draco Malfoy. His bruises had long faded, he no longer held himself like a man taking care to work around injuries he’d rather you didn’t see. His eyes were colder, too, much colder than the eyes Harry recalled from the sneering boy at school. For all that his lips quirked up in a smile whenever he looked at Hermione, Harry had a feeling the woman was the one warm light in Malfoy’s dark world. “The whole of the post-war structures stink.”  
  
“It is, and they do,” Harry agreed. What are you planning?” he asked.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
It turns out that after you fight and beat a literal monster, you become difficult to intimidate with bureaucracy.  
. . . . . . .  
  
“Malfoy?” Neville had asked when Harry talked to him. “Not you?”  
  
Harry had shuddered. “Like I’d want that. You?”  
  
“Oh, hell no.”  
  
The two men had looked at one another. “He’s a good symbol,” Neville had said at last. “For all that a lot of people hate him, he’s become the face of injustice, the one person we couldn’t smuggle out, and no one’s ever denied he’s clever and can be charismatic when he wants to. And with Hermione at his side, he’ll be the face of post-war reconciliation too.” He paused. “And better him than me.”  
  
“Then we’re agreed?”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Hermione took quill and paper and began writing to Narcissa Malfoy. I have, she wrote, a proposal for you. Maybe you’ve heard, she wrote, about ‘Dumbledore’s Army.’  
  
Narcissa wrote back. I have, she said, I have heard stories of such. Let me tell you another story I’ve heard, one about what happened in the detention center. It’s only one story, one tale in a book of tales.   
  
How long is that book? Hermione asked. How many tales?  
  
Long, Narcissa wrote to her. Very long.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Hermione traced her fingers over faint lines on Draco’s skin. They sat on the couch, languid now after an afternoon of urgency, her straddling him, clothing left discarded around the room. She thought, sometimes, that she would never grow tired of this man; the more time she spent with him, the less sated she became. His hands, his mouth, his heart. That heart, she thought, was far richer than she ever would have thought, that heart that he kept barricaded. The heart that she knew was hers. It was, she had realized, no small thing to be loved by Draco Malfoy.  
  
“How many didn’t scar,” she asked him, running her fingers over the one on his face, under his eye, one that no spell she’d tried had softened or faded. Curse scar.  
  
“Most,” he said. “They were careful, most of the time, to make sure they wouldn’t leave permanent marks. The things one becomes grateful for,” he added with the bitterness that had faded at least somewhat. “I’m not a scarred monster for you. Other than…” he jerked his head towards the Mark on his arm.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.  
  
“Don’t be,” he said, and she watched him as he, in turn, watched the planes of her face and her eyes, as he let his hands rest at her hips. “You didn’t do it.”  
  
“We’re all complicit,” she disagreed. That was what led to her pacing in the middle of the night and writing notes to Narcissa. As soon as I stop fighting it, she’d said to Harry, at that moment I truly become a slave owner. Until then, until that moment, he is just my politically inconvenienced houseguest.  
  
Politically inconvenienced lover, Harry had said.  
  
True enough, she’d said with a smirk that made Harry turn red. He’d asked whether she really loved the man anyway, getting the words out despite obvious effort.  
  
Yes, she’d said. Yes, I do. More than I’d have thought possible.  
  
Now that loved man sat with her as she traced her fingers over the faint marks that barely hinted at his imprisonment and he said, “You’re not complicit. You fought it. Potter’s not. Longbottom’s not. Your whole little cadre of virtue fought.” He paused and said, pained to admit it. “I’m grateful.”  
  
“How would you feel about having them fight a bit more literally?” she asked, and his hands tightened around her waist. She smiled at the question he wasn’t asking, the way his eyes searched her face asking for confirmation. “I said we’d think of something. We have an army, Draco. We took down your Dark Lord, we can do this.”  
  
“An army of children,” he said, dismissing the idea, though he still watched her.  
  
“We aren’t children anymore,” she reminded him. “I’m not sure we were ever children.”  
  
“You’re talking about another war.”  
  
But she shook her head. “I’m talking about a surgical coup.”  
  
“And who ends up in power.”  
  
“You do,” she said, her hands on his chest, on those faint marks. “We do.”  
  
“Your army of do-gooders isn’t going to fight to put me in power.” He looked down at his arm again, at the Mark burned into his skin. “I’m the last person anyone would be willing to use that way.”  
  
But she smiled. “Wanna bet?”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Malfoy?” Ron shook his head and grimaced at both Harry and Hermione. “I get you’re shacked up with him and all invested in saving him, ‘Mione, but…”  
  
“The post-war reconstruction was immoral,” Hermione said, her voice very calm. “The Protective Custody Act was probably the worst of it, but you can’t deny the whole structure is rotten.”  
  
“And I’m not, but you’re talking about a war, another war, to put your boyfriend in power.”  
  
“Not a war. A coup. And not because he’s shagging ‘Mione but because he can rally all the exiles,” Harry said, handing the pile of Narcissa Malfoy’s letters to Ron. “He’s a focal point, and his mother is… well, you know. She’s terrifying, really. And she’s prepared to bring a children’s crusade to the streets of London. It’s one thing to beat children behind closed doors; do you think the public would tolerate a hand raised to quell a peaceful demonstration in the streets composed of minor children – some very minor indeed – that the Ministry tried to enslave?”  
  
“I didn’t need confirmation of the shagging,” Ron said under his breath.  
  
“Did you ever ask anyone,” Hermione said to Ron, “What Detention was like?”  
  
“My mother did,” he muttered, skimming the letters in his hand. “I wasn’t sure I believed it.”  
  
“Believe it,” Harry said. “I saw it. So did Neville.”  
  
“No, I mean I wasn’t sure I believed Malfoy really…” Ron shrugged. “But I guess it doesn’t matter whether he really was the hero all these people think he was or whether they’re just deluded. If he has the whole exile community behind him…”  
  
“Exactly,” Harry said.   
  
The three of them looked at each other.   
  
“Pawn conversion, Ronald,” Hermione said. “This time, we cross the board the whole way. This time we take over.”  
  
“And checkmate,” he said. The three of them looked at one another and smiled. If Narcissa had seen Hermione at that moment she would have recognized the expression; she’d seen it often enough in her own mirror.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“More, Mistress mine?” Draco slid the bottle across the table.  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Hermione muttered, pouring herself more wine. “You know I hate it.”  
  
“I’ll stop when it isn’t true anymore,” he said, his voice low.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Ron had looked at the list tacked to the wall by the door and raised his eyebrows, had looked back at Hermione with a question on his face. The paper listed different items of clothing, all neatly crossed out. At the bottom, it read ‘freedom’ and then ‘a wand.’  
  
‘A wand’ had also been crossed out. ‘Freedom’ had not.  
  
“It’s a reminder,” she’d said, looking out the window to watch Draco Malfoy pace at the edge of the wards. He’d claimed to want a walk, an obvious excuse to get away from Ron, to give her time to talk to her friend. “Something I still have to deal with.”  
  
“I hope he appreciates you,” Ron had said, as he was getting ready to leave after they’d talked strategy and plans and resources. “I hope he knows no one but you would latch onto the project of ending that Act with enough fervor to plan a bloody war on his behalf.”  
  
She’d watched Draco pace, tromping back and forth in the dingy snow. “I’m not doing it for him,” she’d said quietly.   
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
They spent long hours wrapped up in one another, the obsession of all new lovers driving them to share stories and details of their lives. She talked about finding out she was a witch, about going to school and finding out she was a mudblood. He flinched at that, his hands on her skin as he sat behind her, learning every curve with his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she shrugged. “It was what it was,” she said.  
  
“You still took me in,” he ran his fingers up and down her spine as he memorized her, as he tried not to remember how cruel he’d been. “Why?”  
  
“Well, I didn’t do it for love of you,” she said, hunching her shoulders forward a bit. He tugged her back, so she was leaning against him, wrapped his arms around her and held on. He waited for her to continue and, used to his silences by now, she did. “Harry asked. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for him, and not much he wouldn’t do for me. And,” she sighed. “What was I supposed to do? Let you die? Because I didn’t want to have someone I didn’t like in the guest room?”  
  
He told her of his childhood, of the father he’d never been able to please, of the mother he’d adored. He talked about Voldemort’s return, about having a monster in his house. “When your lot killed him,” he said, “I thought I was finally free. No more impossible missions, no more worrying about my mother. I just wanted to go off to some isolated cottage and hide.”  
  
She turned in his arms at that, looked up at his face, at his eyes staring off into nothing. “Wish granted?” she asked, and he huffed out a laugh.  
  
“I got the cottage at least,” he conceded.  
  
“We’ll get you the rest of it too,” she said, and he tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes, blocking out hope.  
  
“Well,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t bet against you, Mist –“  
  
She put her hand over his mouth. “Just don’t,” she said, and he opened those grey eyes again, looked at her and sighed.  
  
“I hate it,” he said. “The only way I can stand it is to – “  
  
“I know.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Why do you call her that?” Ron asked.  
  
Draco was standing behind Hermione at the table, looking over her shoulder at the papers in front of her. “Because it’s what she is,” he said, eyeing the other man. “Have you never actually read the Protective Custody Act?”  
  
Ron shook his head.  
  
“In what I can only assume is deliberately vague language, the Act essentially gives her the right to do anything to me.” Draco took his fingers and began tracing them along the sides of Hermione’s face, down her neck. He drew them across her windpipe, then back to her shoulders and down the lines of her arms. She ignored him. “Anything.” He caught Ron’s eye and smiled, a slow smile that hinted at any number of things, and the man flushed, the red color of his skin making him look even more beet-like than usual, Draco thought, rather uncharitably.  
  
“What does she ask you to do?” Luna asked, a curious look sparkling in her eyes, and now it was Draco who flushed.  
  
“Mostly not to call me ‘Mistress,’” Hermione said, flipping through the paperwork and still not looking up.  
  
“He listens well, then,” Ron said, sourly. “Good to see some things never change.”  
  
“I do everything you require, Mistress mine,” Draco said, but she snorted so ungraciously the whole table laughed and, for the first time, Draco found himself included in the laughter, part of the group.  
  
. . . . . . . . . . .  
  
“So… you’re okay with this?” Draco looked up to see Luna Lovegood watching him.  
  
“I thought power was the one thing you all thought I wanted,” he said, on the verge of dismissing her before she spoke again.  
  
“You want freedom and this will guarantee you’ll never have it.”  
  
Draco tensed and, pretending to return his attention to the strategic outline in front of him, said, “Hermione has assured me that tearing the Protective Custody Act into tiny little bits is the very first thing we’ll do when we take control.”  
  
“Do you really think you’ll be freer in the halls of power than you are in this cottage?”   
  
He frowned and, shifting papers, finally said in a low tone, “At least the chains will be ones I put on myself.”  
  
Luna nodded at that. “Friends?” She thrust out her hand, and he looked at it in shock before he took it, his own hand shaking a little.   
  
“If you insist,” he muttered.  
  
“That must be Malfoy for, ‘why, yes Luna, I’d be delighted to be friends with you’ Ron mocked from across the room, and Luna smiled. “I knew what he meant,” she said, and Ron flushed again.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Marcus, Daphne: the continent was filled with conniving, angry youth. They’d done time in detention centers, been bought by people they’d been raised to hate, and, radicalized in exile, they’d banded together.  
  
They watched Narcissa Malfoy nee Black spin her plots, tucked away in her ‘social club’.  
  
“Hermione Granger.” Pansy had said the name with no emotion and Blaise had nodded. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”  
  
Theo had snorted. “Then you weren’t paying attention. That swot couldn’t turn down an opportunity to be virtuous if her life depended on it.”  
  
“Do you think he’s happy?”  
  
Blaise had looked at her, mouth curved in a malicious smile. “Oh, yes, Pans. I think he’s very happy.”  
  
Her eyelids had flickered at that, but all she’d said had been a simple, curt reply. “Good.”  
  
“We’re with Narcissa, then?” Marcus had had to confirm the obvious choice and Blaise had twisted the knife again, smirking at Pansy.   
  
“Narcissa and Hermione Granger, you mean.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“When this is done,” she said, lying back against the sheets, asking the thing that terrified her because bravery was who she was, what she did, “When we win, when you aren’t mine in this despicable way, will you still want me?”  
  
He turned back towards her, trousers still in one hand, and said, “I’ll never not want you, never not be yours. I just want to be yours out of choice, not out of – “  
  
She buried her face in her hands at that, and he stopped himself, muttered, “I hate it when you cry.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Eventually, all their plots and plans and strategies were done, there was nothing left to double-check, no one left to recruit. “This,” Ron said, “calls for a celebration. It’s a good thing our future Minister can cook. Get on it, ferret boy. You make the grub, and I’ll supply the booze.”  
  
“I’ll supply the booze,” Neville said with a snort. “You always go for quantity over quality, and this is an occasion for the good stuff.”  
  
Neville, as it happened, decided to err on the side of both quality and quantity and by the time the eating portion of the evening was over, everyone was thoroughly pissed.  
  
“To Hermione,” one person toasted, “the only person stubborn enough to take on the entire structure of government because her boyfriend has to do what she says.   
  
“I wish my significant other had to do what I said,” Lavender snickered, eyeing Ron, who suddenly became very busy clearing plates to the sink. “That sounds like fun.”  
  
Ginny coughed into her hand, and Harry became interested in a stain on the chair he was sitting on.  
  
“I never liked you,” Neville said, standing up and looking at Draco, slurring only a little because he was being so very careful to articulate. “You were a bully. An arrogant bully. And you used too many hair products.” He said the last with serious consideration and the room filled with laughter and Draco flushed but, before he could mutter a response, Neville held up his hand and continued. “You picked on me, you picked on ‘Mione, you let the bloody Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and if someone had told me at sixteen I’d be planning to take over the whole bloody Ministry to put you into power I would have laughed myself absolutely fuckin’ sick.   
  
“But,” he stepped back a bit and regarded the man, “I think I’ve learned a bit since then about the choices a person can have to make when ‘is back is up against the wall, and I’ve learned a bit about some of the choices you made when your back was up against that wall after the war. I know how you got that,” he pointed at the tiny scar under the man’s eye, the one that had never quite healed. “I would,” he said, holding his hand out, then, realizing he had his drink in that hand he shifted the glass before extending himself again, “be proud to call you a friend, Draco Malfoy.”  
  
Slowly, waiting for the hand to be yanked away, Draco reached out and took it.  
  
“To Draco,” Harry raised his glass, “the only person in the room stupid enough to face a life of wrangling bureaucrats.”  
  
“To Draco,” the room echoed, and he looked at Hermione, wholly lost, and she brought her own glass up.  
  
“To Draco,” she said, “the politically inconvenienced houseguest who’s made my life richer.”  
  
“To Potter,” Draco said with an embarrassed shrug, raising his own glass, “and Longbottom, who couldn’t settle for just being heroes once but had to bloody well do it again. Once in my life, I’d like to not be shown up by you two.”  
  
“Never going to happen,” Ron said to another round of laughter.  
  
The toasts followed quickly, then, one after another as each person took a turn cheering and lauding one another, friends and allies. “Tomorrow,” Draco muttered, “is going to be miserable for your friends, Mistress mine.”  
  
“Your friends too,” she said, slipping her hand into his and resting her head on his shoulder. He tightened his grip on her hand and didn’t say anything, just sat with her in a room of drunk and laughing people who had no reason to like him, he thought, no reason to even save him other than their damned nobility, but who had brought him into their circle anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

Dolores Umbridge was at her desk, finishing an afternoon cup of tea when her door opened, and Narcissa Malfoy walked in.  
  
“No, don’t get up, Dolores,” Narcissa said, a gracious smile on her face. “This won’t take but a few minutes of your time.”  
  
“I understood you had fled to Bulgaria,” the woman said, squinting at her guest.  
  
“A lovely country but I missed my own. You are, I understand, the primary author of the Protective Custody Act?”  
  
At Umbridge’s smug little nod, Narcissa tipped her head and, wand suddenly out, said, “Crucio.”  
  
“I have been assured anything I do today will be granted a full and unconditional pardon,” Narcissa said as she stood and watched the woman writhe at her desk. “I thought at some length about what I wanted to do you and decided one second of agony for every day my son spent in your Detention Center was, while hardly sufficient, a practical compromise between punishing you and having to spend time today managing a major portion of our coup.”  
  
Dolores Umbridge had slipped to the floor and gasped, her mouth reminiscent of a fish, as Narcissa stood there.  
  
Ron and Hermione stood in the doorway, both providing cover and waiting for Narcissa to be done. Later Ron would say, “The creepiest thing wasn’t how she tortured that woman. It was how she never raised her voice, never seemed even the slightest bit agitated. She tortured that woman to death with about as much of an emotional upset as if she’d discovered a bit of lint on her scarf. Less, probably.”  
  
“Draco’s the same way,” Hermione would say with a shrug and, at Ron’s look, she would add, “The more deeply he cares about something, the less he shows it. It’s not that they don’t feel, they just… they’re both very private. Most of the time.”  
  
When Dolores Umbridge died Narcissa frowned a little. “She didn’t even last the full time. How disappointing.” She tucked her wand away. “Well, I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised she didn’t have the personal fortitude to withstand a little suffering.” She looked at Ron and Hermione. “Shall we? There’s still plenty of the building to secure and a forced confession and abdication to extract from Shacklebolt.”  
  
“After you,” Hermione gestured towards the door and Narcissa exited the room.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Years later, Hermione would ask, “How did you manage to coordinate all those portkeys anyway?”  
  
Narcissa Malfoy would smile and say, “The Bulgarian Minister of Magic became very fond of me during my stay in his country.”  
  
“You…” Hermione would stare at the formidable woman – by then her formidable mother-in-law - consciously keeping her mouth from falling open.   
  
“…will use any means to achieve my ends. Exactly.”  
  
. . . . . . . . .  
  
The square was filled with children. Older ones walked alone, younger ones held their mother’s hands. The youngest were carried, many by older siblings. They’d appeared en masse, as if out of nowhere, and walked towards the Ministry.  
  
“What’s going on?” People asked, sticking their heads out of shops and cafes.   
  
“It’s the exiles,” someone said, “they’ve come back. They’re marching on the Ministry.”  
  
“They’re all children,” someone said, hands over her mouth. “I thought they were only rounding up dangerous… these people are children. That’s not right. Who decided that was okay?”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
The older exiles, people more useful at waging war than as propaganda, went right to the Ministry and were let in by the people already in place on the inside.   
  
Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, myriad Weasley siblings – they’d all popped into the Ministry early in the morning. No one would think to prevent them from tromping in, and tromp in they did, cheerfully waving at workers they knew, making people smile at the bumbling young adults stopping by for a visit.   
  
They smiled right until those bumbling charmers seized and secured the hall.  
  
“This is a coup,” Harry said, “Everyone just stay calm and do as we ask, and no one gets hurt.”  
  
“A what?” one woman asked.  
  
“We’ll be ousting Shaklebolt,” Ron explained, “and putting our own man into place. Unless you decide you want to be a hero and sacrifice yourself for the man, nothing will change for you. New Minister, that’s all. A couple of minor legislative changes.”  
  
Lavender Brown waved her wand above her head like some kind of demented tour guide. “If you would all just follow me down to the cafeteria you can wait it out there. We don’t want anyone to get caught in accidental crossfire.”  
  
There was a certain amount of minor grumbling, and one man who lunged from the group, wand extended, having apparently decided to take the ‘hero’ option and defend the current administration.  
  
Hermione shot him down. “Anyone else that attached to Shaklebolt?” she asked. Everyone else decided that a day spent drinking tea in the cafeteria was vastly preferable to death.   
  
“Really,” one woman said as she walked past the rebels, “as if I care who’s running the place. As long as I get my paycheck, I’m happy.”  
  
“Everyone out?” Ginny asked shortly after that, and Ron nodded.   
  
“We’re good,” he said. “Let the snakes in.”  
  
Blaise and Draco met in the main lobby and gave each other quick, stiff hugs. “You made it,” Draco said, his tone clipped, giving nothing away.  
  
“First out, courtesy of Saint Potter, then back, thanks to your mother.” Blaise nodded. He looked across the room to where Hermione Granger was standing, directing a flow of people, each being sent to secure a different part of the building. “Not that it matters, of course, but I approve.”  
  
Draco looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Really?”  
  
“Invite me to the wedding,” Blaise said, and Draco relaxed, albeit only marginally.  
  
“It’s good to have you back,” he said. “The noble brigade are fine and all, but the level of earnest sincerity is sometimes enough to choke a man.”  
  
“They get shit done, though, don’t they?” Blaise was still watching Hermione.

“They do,” Draco conceded.  
  
“She must really love you,” Blaise muttered, “to wage a bloody war for you.”  
  
Draco shook his head at that. “She’d have done it if she still hated me. When she gets an idea in her head, you either start helping or get the hell out of her way.”  
  
“She still loves you though, doesn’t she?” he pushed and when Draco shrugged he smiled and pushed harder. “What’s she like in the sack?”  
  
“Mind your fucking mouth, Blaise,” Draco said, voice totally pleasant and his friend laughed.  
  
“So it isn’t all about power and liberation and all that shite; you do love her. I thought you probably did.”  
  
“You’re such an arsehole.”  
  
“Can I be best man?”

Draco rolled his eyes but muttered, “Of course, you fucking prat. Who else would I ask? Potter?”  
  
. . . . . . . . .  
  
It turns out that if you hand-raise a tiger, you can train him to attack your enemies. It also turns out that tigers grow up and become less malleable. The Ministry had had a tiger by the tail and, unaware of this, had let go.  
  
That had been a mistake.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
They’d planned the coup for a day the Wizengamot was meeting, for a day they’d all be within the Ministry at once.  
  
The members of the Wizengamot didn’t have a chance. Yes, they were older then their opponents, yes they’d lived through two wars, but they’d lived through them as politicians, as scholars, and now they fought people who’d been raised to battle, who’d been honed into weapons by adults who should, perhaps, have asked themselves what, exactly, they planned to do with all these dangerous children once the war was over.  
  
The children – the honed weapons - won. Easily.  
  
Ron and Pansy finished securing the bulk of them, locked them into one hall. They were disarmed and sat, shaken, facing their captors.  
  
“Now,” Narcissa Malfoy said, a line of snakes at her back, “You will vote to rescind the Protective Custody Act.”  
  
“We will not,” one member protested. “You can’t just come in here and demand we pass whatever laws you want.”  
  
Narcissa killed him. She had, after all, been promised immunity. She’d also chipped a nail while dealing with Umbridge and was feeling a bit put out about that. Plus, of course, these people had turned her son into a slave, and they were bloody well lucky she was only making them pass laws. She’d wanted to kill them all but had been talked out of it by Hermione and Harry, who’d pointed out mass murder was not a good way to kick off a new regime.  
  
Still, she did manage to kill the one member stupid enough to protest her legislative suggestion. Two down, she thought.  
  
The vote to rescind the Protective Custody Act was, after that, immediate and unanimous.  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“Are we done, Mistress mine?” Draco asked and Hermione, gritting her teeth, handed him the parchment containing the original Act. Ron later said to Lavender, after several drinks, that he’d never seen a look so feral on any human face before, and he never wanted to again.   
  
Draco, almost vibrating with hatred, looked at Hermione, looked at the paper in his hand, and began to tear it into smaller and smaller pieces before tossing them to the stone floor and igniting them.  
  
“We’re done,” she said when the fire burned itself out and only ash remained. He shuddered and grabbed onto her, hid his face in her hair and murmured, so quietly only she could hear him, “Thank you. Just... thank you.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement eyed Draco Malfoy. “My niece was deemed to require protective custody,” he said, “and my sister.” His tone was very casual as though they were discussing the weather, as though a near army of Aurors weren’t standing behind him, wands drawn. “I told my sister not to marry that bastard, told her more than once, but she wouldn’t listen. It was love, she said.” The man shook his head. “He was an idiot; I still wonder how he was accepted as a Death Eater. You’d think there would have been recruitment standards.”  
  
“Why didn’t you take them in,” Draco asked, not moving.  
  
“The brother-in-law of a Death Eater wasn’t considered ‘trustworthy’ enough,” he snorted. “Not even after decades of service to my government. I wasn’t even allowed past the door of the detention center due to my ‘conflict of interest’.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Draco said, and the man shrugged.  
  
“She wrote to me once she was safely tucked away in Bonn. She had some interesting stories to tell.”   
  
“Really?” Draco still hadn’t moved, and the man smiled and sheathed his wand.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to welcome you, Minister.” He held out his hand and, slowly, everyone behind him lowered their wands as Draco Malfoy shook their boss’ hand. “I look forward to working with you.”  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Luna and Blaise had been assigned to secure the Department of Mysteries. This had proven to be the easiest part of the entire day as the sum total of resistance was one research scientist who came out and, standing in the hallway outside the entrance to the research labs, demanded to know what was going on.  
  
“It’s a coup,” Blaise had said, wand leveled at the man.  
  
The man had ignored the wand, didn’t even seem to notice it and had glared at Luna. “Does the new administration have any intentions of cutting research funding?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” she’d said.  
  
“That Delicious person – “  
  
“Dolores,” someone had muttered behind him, coming out to see what was going on.   
  
“Whatever. She cut our research funding by half. Do you have any idea how much that set us back? How are we supposed to stay competitive with the rest of the wizarding world if we’re working with outdated equipment and have to lay off half our staff?”  
  
Blaise looked at Luna, wholly amused, and had shrugged. “I think I can guarantee a return to previous funding levels if you support the new regime,” Luna had said, her voice clear in the dingy hallway.   
  
“Done.” The man had turned to go back to his work and, when they went to follow him, waved them off. “Go do something else. No one wants you underfoot down here. We’re working.”  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Kingsley Shacklebolt found himself on a balcony looking out over a square filled with children and journalists as five different wizards pointed wands at him and Draco Malfoy stood at his side.  
  
“I have decided to step down,” Shacklebolt said, along with “deeply ashamed of my role in the Protective Custody Act” and “Want to spend more time with my family.”  
  
Narcissa and Hermione had had great fun writing the speech. Hermione had come in with a rough draft and Narcissa had deftly crossed things out and added encoded language that the returning exiles would understand. The result was a masterpiece of self-recrimination and pleas for forgiveness, spiced up with praise for the next generation of leaders.  
  
“I can’t read this,” the man had protested, holding the parchment out in front of him. “This is practically falling on my sword!”  
  
“You could literally fall on your sword,” Pansy had suggested, her wand jabbed perilously close to his testicles. “That would be an acceptable alternative. I’d even hold the sword for you.”  
  
“You’ll do it, or you’ll have died tragically in the coup,” Hermione had said, not even looking up from a conversation with Harry, “and another member of the Wizengamot will laud your achievements and mourn your death even as they pass the responsibility for government to Draco.”  
  
“You can’t threaten me like that,” he snapped, glaring at her. At that, she’d looked up, briefly, and snorted.  
  
“I just did,” was all she said. “Choose, and make it quick, or we’ll let Pansy have her way with you and move on. We’re on a tight schedule, we’d like to get all the workers out by five, so they can go home to their families, and no one has time for your dilly-dallying.”  
  
Now he stood, giving his speech and planning a long, restful trip to the country, far away from the bloodthirsty rebels standing just outside of the view of the crowd.  
  
“He wants to spend more time with his family? I thought he was single,” one reporter said, squinting up at the man as he introduced the new Minister, chosen by a unanimous vote in the Wizengamot just that afternoon.  
  
The photographer standing next to him snorted. “He is. I bet he doesn’t last the month but has some sort of unfortunate accident. Chokes on a pretzel, falls off a cliff, gets eaten by a rogue tiger. Something.”  
  
“So you’re telling me you don’t think this resignation is wholly unforced?”  
  
Both men looked at one another and laughed. “Did you ever think Harry Potter would push Draco Malfoy into office?”  
  
“That might explain it.” He pointed up at Hermione Granger, war heroine and political crusader, who’d slipped onto the balcony next to Malfoy and wrapped an arm around his waist. She waved to the crowd with her other hand and, as the couple waved down, the cheers and screaming from the children standing in the street, from their mothers, muffled any comments Draco Malfoy might have made.  
  
“They’re a fucking storybook perfect symbol,” the photographer said, lifting his camera. ‘Pureblood prince turned slave turned rebel with the golden girl of the last war at his side. It’s like someone designed it to tug on heartstrings.”  
  
“Go figure,” the reporter said, and both men laughed again.  
  
“Cynic,” the photographer said, and the reporter shrugged.   
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
“When will the wedding be?” someone yelled out from the square and Draco looked at Hermione, who, to his utter amusement, had a look of dumbfounded confusion on her face.   
  
“Well,” he called back down, “I haven’t exactly asked her yet.”  
  
“Get on it,” someone screamed, and with a grin, Draco picked up Hermione’s hand, the smirk in his eyes only mostly hidden.  
  
“Hermione Granger,” he said, the words formal as the square hushed, “I hated you as a child and resented you when you rescued me from slavery. I admired you before I liked you, but fast on the heels of admiration and liking came love; I have never respected, esteemed, or adored anyone as I do you and I would be humbly grateful if you would do me the honor of – “  
  
“Yes,” she said, then shoved her other hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, “I interrupted you, I shouldn’t have…”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” he said, pulling her to him, “you gave me the right answer,” and, to the sound of rising cheers and whistles, kissed her in front of an audience of returned exiles, reporters and other interested onlookers.  
  
“Brightest witch of our age,” she got out between kisses, “right answers is what I do.”  
  
.  
.  
  
And they all lived happily ever after.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
(except Shacklebolt, who, tragically, was killed by a tiger while on holiday with Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa was fine, though she was overheard to say “three down.”)  
  


  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on FFN during January of 2015. Only minor typographical changes have been made.


End file.
